No Rest for the Wicked
by lullabystander
Summary: Mornings with Fleur are easily Cedric’s favourite kind of morning. Cedric DiggoryFleur Delacour. Established relationship. Partner piece to 'Well Kept Secret'. Oneshot.


**Title: **No Rest for the Wicked  
**Fandom:** Harry Potter  
**Pairing:** Cedric Diggory/Fleur Delacour  
**Rating:** PG-13 (for insinuations)

**Summary:** Mornings with Fleur are easily Cedric's favourite kind of morning. Cedric DiggoryFleur Delacour. Established relationship. Partner piece to _Well Kept Secret._ Oneshot.

**Word Count:** 1,016  
**Authors Notes:** Partner piece to _Well Kept Secret._ Written for Livejournals Fanfic100 challenge community. Prompt 063 – Summer. This one ran away with me completely. I hate when that happens. Blah.

Sleeping-in was a privilege more than anything - a _rare_ privilege. 

Opportunities to laze around in bed all morning were few and far between, both at home _and_ in the dorms. There was always a constant nagging at the back of Cedric's mind, a little voice reminding him that there was always _something_ to be done – chores, lessons, homework. Spare moments where he could just _exist_ often passed in a haze; like daydreams or déjà vu. Cedric was never aware of them until they'd been and gone.

His mates had a saying for it, "No rest for the wicked," they'd chuckle, but Cedric never laughed. He knew it was just a figure of speech, a joke even, but it bothered him. It didn't really _apply_ to him did it? He didn't think he was particularly wicked, at least no more so than what was probably expected of someone his age, so surely it all meant that he was being robbed of a pleasure that he rightly deserved.

Well. He wasn't robbed of it _completely_.

Cedric couldn't always complain - especially not on mornings such as this one.

Lazy, languid mornings where he woke up entangled in pale limbs and silk sheets; mornings where everything was dressed in a dusky-blue light; mornings where the world existed between four bed posts that weren't his own.

Mornings with Fleur were easily the best kind of mornings that could ever be and there was absolutely nothing that would change Cedric's mind; though they happened far too sporadically in his opinion. He often wondered if Fleur thought the same thing. He'd asked her, once, if she missed him on the mornings he wasn't there;

"I mees not 'aving 'ad someone to kick in my sleep," she'd said. The mischievous wink that followed had filled in the blanks.

She was still fast asleep; her head nestled comfortably on Cedric's chest, an arm slung casually over his waist. Her body fit snugly alongside his, her skin hot and flush against his own. Cedric had been surprised, the first time he touched her. From the very first moment he'd set eyes on her, he'd expected her to be cold. He'd expected ice and frost and glaciers, like her eyes. He'd expected rippling winter and intense blizzards, not a heat wave. But that was what he'd found. That's what he _always_ found.

Fleur was full of little surprises like that.

The girl, in short was a mystery. Oh, she could speak her mind all she liked, but that didn't mean she gave anything away.

Sometimes she said all the wrong things, things that Cedric would politely ignore or roll his eyes at, because it couldn't have been easy for Fleur to practise tact in a foreign language. And then sometimes (most times) she said things that just _amazed_ him, wonderful things that often left him scrambling for an equal response. It was a game of chance, really.

The important matter, though, was that beneath it all, Fleur was just being _Fleur_. That was something a lot of people just didn't understand. They didn't really bother to, and when Cedric thought about it, Fleur was quite cautious about whom she let get close enough to try.

Cedric considered himself to be one of the lucky ones; lucky enough to be close, to have her and hold her and, yeah, share the odd morning or two with her.

Judging by the light streaming through the gap in the drapes, it wasn't too early. Sometime around nine am, Cedric guessed. It being a Sunday, breakfast in the Great Hall would have commenced a little later than usual. If the other Beauxbatons students hadn't left the carriage already (Cedric hadn't got around to checking yet), they probably would do shortly – which in turn meant he'd have to follow suit soon after. 

It was a clockwork routine.

One that wouldn't have to be followed during the summer, according to Fleur.

A French summer - that was the plan. She'd made the suggestion just that previous night, inviting Cedric to visit her over the holidays. 

"Eet will be different," she'd purred between kisses, "zere will be sun, and coffee, and _real_ croissants. No rush. No curfews. No professeurs breathing down our necks. We ...will be we."

And it was an offer Cedric _really_ couldn't refuse.

Lazy, languid mornings every damn day for a month. And _she'd_ be with him for every single one.

It all sounded too good to be true.

She stirred against him and he looked down at her. She was dreaming, now, Cedric could tell; her eyes were darting back and forth behind her eyelids, her brow slightly furrowed. Consciousness wasn't far off. She'd wake soon and she'd gently scold him for not waking her earlier. And then they'd flirt a bit, and banter, and cling to the final fibres of their own little world before reluctantly making a return to reality.

Procrastination would be their downfall one of these days, Cedric was convinced of that. Flirting and banter was one thing, but when his hands and Fleur's mouth entered the equation, they crossed over into dangerous territory. They weren't beyond pushing their luck, that much was certain.

Cedric just knew that he couldn't wait for the summer to be there already. If he could Accio it, he would.

He'd ask Fleur later on if the invitation was genuine or a heat-of-the-moment thing, and if she said she'd meant it (and Cedric believed she had), he would silently hope that she wouldn't change her mind if he won the tournament. He didn't think she would, but she might make him pay for her loss. She might quash his dreams of a summers worth of lazy mornings. He sort of hoped she did, if his imagination was anything to go by.

He could picture it clearly: waking early to luxurious mornings in France, ruby-red sheets on a queen-sized bed, and Fleur – sleep-dishevelled and sexy – wearing nothing but a seductive smile as she straddled his hips.

"No rest for ze wicked." She'd say.

And this time, Cedric would gladly agree.

END


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